


A Fragile Thing

by snuckybarnes



Series: Sick Leave [2]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Bad Poetry, Hugs, Hurt/Comfort, Invasion of Privacy, M/M, Trans Male Character, Trans Martin Blackwood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-17
Updated: 2020-02-17
Packaged: 2021-02-28 02:14:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22776238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snuckybarnes/pseuds/snuckybarnes
Summary: Jon is too curious for his own good, and learns something he doesn't have the right to.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Series: Sick Leave [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1637413
Comments: 46
Kudos: 457





	A Fragile Thing

**Author's Note:**

> Guess I had more thoughts about this little verse! And because elliot has been having a lot of thoughts on names this week so this is my gift to him (he was also kind enough to encourage me on this as well!)
> 
> This is tagged as 'bad poetry' because i know absolutely nothing about poetry and will therefore assume my vague attempts in this fic are subpar.

It’s strange how quickly something new becomes routine. Before long, tea at Martin’s feels just as normal as going to work, and Jon finds himself there pretty much every evening that he doesn’t spend staying late at the Institute. They talk, about everything and anything, and Jon can’t imagine how he could ever have found Martin’s presence anything but comforting.

Martin seems to appreciate the company as well, sometimes smiling as if Jon’s little visits are the highlight of his day. Jon still doesn’t know what he’s ever done to warrant such an opinion, but he’ll take it nonetheless.

While Martin had initially been happy to have Jon retrieve his bag for him, however, he seems reluctant to accept more help. Keeps insisting that he can take care of himself, and that Jon doesn’t need to bother. Jon doesn’t know how to tell him he just likes not to feel useless, without at the same time implying that that’s what Martin is, so he keeps his mouth shut.

It happens more than once, but specifically one evening when Jon arrives at Martin’s building to find none other than Martin himself outside, clutching a supermarket bag to his chest and frowning at the door.

“Martin?” Jon greets, chastising himself for it almost immediately. Of course it’s Martin, who else would it be?

Martin turns his head, giving him a weak smile. When he speaks, his voice sounds just as strained as he looks. “Ah, Jon, hi. I didn’t realise you’d be coming over today.”

“Sorry, I— You said I didn’t need to call ahead—”

“No, don’t, it’s fine! Just— A bit surprised to see you is all,” Martin reassures.

“Right,” Jon says, only half convinced. Martin still hasn’t moved form his spot. “Shall we go inside or…?”

Martin sighs. “Yeah, I just— Need to get my keys.”

“Okay.”

“It’s— The groceries are a bit heavier than I expected. Just give me a moment.”

Jon does, and actually gives the situation some thought. Worry and frustration starts to build up inside him almost immediately and his arms flail uselessly at his sides as he is reminded of warnings of things that can go wrong when over exerting muscles too soon after surgery. Especially something as sensitive as this. “Christ, Martin, you’re— You’re not supposed to— What were you—? Here, let me just—” He finally manages to get his body to do something useful, and grabs a hold of the grocery bag. Martin is still holding onto it though, and doesn’t seem to want to let go.

“Jon, it’s fine, I can carry my own shopping,” he insists.

Jon glares up at him, unimpressed. “I know that. But you’re not supposed to carry heavy things just yet. Let me help.”

Martin just glares back, and Jon doesn’t think about how close they’re actually standing, pressed together with just the grocery bag between them.

“Besides, what’s in there, milk and biscuits for tea? It’s as much my shopping as yours, really,” Jon tries again.

Something softens around Martin’s eyes, and he caves. “Fine,” he says, making sure Jon has a hold of the bag before he lets go. He tries not to show it, but Jon doesn’t miss how he hisses in pain and presses a hand against his side. He fishes his keys out of his pocket and gets the door open, walking ahead of Jon to the elevator.

“How’s your day been?” Jon asks once Martin has pressed the right button. He’s usually not very good at small talk, but the confined space of the elevator almost begs for him to fill the silence.

“It’s been alright,” Martin says, his voice not as strained anymore, now that he isn’t carrying the grocery bag. “I went to the park actually. Saw some squirrels.”

“Aw, that’s nice. Cute ones?”

“I’m pretty sure all squirrels are cute, Jon.” There. There’s the soft smile Jon’s been missing today. Jon can’t help but smile himself.

“Even the mangey ones?”

“They just need some care and love.”

“If you say so,” Jon agrees, stepping out of the elevator as it reaches Martin’s floor.

They go into the flat together, and Jon starts to unpack the groceries. By now he’s been here enough times to know his way around Martin’s kitchen. Martin isn’t too happy about it however.

“Jon,” he protests, trying to step in close enough to reach the bag. Jon only feels a little bit guilty for moving in his way, taking full advantage of the fact that Martin can’t stretch out his arms. Instead he gets Martin almost pressed up against his side, which is...nice. “Jon, you don’t have to do this stuff. I can do it myself.”

“I know. But I want to,” he protests. “Wouldn’t you do the same for me?”

“Of _course_ I would, but that’s different!” Martin huffs. Jon can feel his breath tickle the top of his head.

Jon rolls his eyes and turns to face him. “How is that possibly different?”

“Well, for starters I—” Martin begins, then his face goes a lovely shade of pink. “It just— It just _is_ , okay?” he argues, taking a step back and crossing his arms as he leans back against the kitchen counter.

Jon sighs, putting the last of the groceries in place. Once it would have been exasperated, he thinks, but now it’s just fond. “Consider it a way for me to say thanks for the tea,” he suggests.

The soft smile finds its way back to Martin’s lips. He opens his mouth to say something, before he frowns and makes a face. “Ugh. I think I’m— I gotta go check my bandages.” He pushes off the counter and heads for the bathroom, closing the door behind him.

Jon stays where he is for a moment, before he approaches the bathroom, standing awkwardly in front of the closed door. “Are you— Is everything alright?”

“Yeah, yeah, it’s fine,” comes Martin’s muffled voice, accompanied by the rustling of fabric. “I just need to make sure I haven’t torn anything. Make yourself at home.”

He’s said that a lot, since Jon started visiting. It’s a bit sad, he knows, but Jon has to admit he doesn’t really know what that’s supposed to feel like. He spends so little time in his own flat that it feels more like a place he sleeps than an actual home. He’s certainly never been homesick for it, or any of the other flats he’s had throughout the years. The home he shared with his parents is too faint of a memory for him to be able to give it any real connection, and living with his grandmother always felt...strangely temporary. The one place that did feel like a home was the flat he shared with Georgie during uni, but he knows that was more thanks to her than anything he ever did. And in any case, that home no longer exists.

Martin’s place is nice though. Full of plants and books and mementos that all seem to...mean something. Even the haphazard doesn’t feel accidental.

Today there’s a book Jon hasn’t seen before, placed on Martin’s desk. Curious, and with little better to do, Jon flips it open at a random page.

A dried flower has been pressed and glued to the page, looking so frail that Jon worries it will fall asunder if he as much as breathes on it. There’s ink on the page too, words written in a familiar hand, though far neater than Jon usually sees it:

> _I ask you to call me Martin_
> 
> _Once, twice, a hundred times_

There are plenty of more lines, but Jon tears his eyes away before he can read any further. It feels far too private, and Jon flips to another page.

There is no flower adorning this one, just the words taking up the space on their own, standing stark against the off-white paper.

> _Hope is a fragile thing, eggshells waiting to crack_
> 
> _at the slightest impact_
> 
> _It is a fragile thing, that I place in your hands and_
> 
> _trust you will keep safe,_
> 
> _hold it close to your heart, just as I hold it close to mine_

The words, Martin’s words, bring a fond smile to Jon’s lips, but he stops there. This poem feels less private than the first, but no less personal and Jon knows it’s still private enough. He shouldn’t be snooping. Martin will show him his poetry when he’s ready, if he ever is.

The curiosity that permanently resides within him tells him to keep looking, but Jon pushes it aside and closes the book to put it back on the desk.

As he does, something falls out of it. A photograph, landing face down on the floor.

Unfamiliar handwriting on the back reads “ _My girls_ ,” followed by two names that don’t mean anything. Jon picks it up, wondering which pages it’s supposed to be between.

On the front of the picture there’s a woman, with long hair that falls in soft curls. It’s summer, and the cut of her blue dress seems to match up with the photograph’s timestamp, dating it to 1993. The woman is smiling widely, her arms wrapped around a small child, shy but just as happy. The little girl’s smile is somehow vaguely familiar, and she has a dimple that Jon could swear he’s—

Realisation dawning on him, Jon flushes, his blood rushing in his ears. He needs to put this away, he needs—

“False alarm,” comes Martin’s voice, accompanied by the sound of the bathroom door opening. “Everything looks fine as far as I can—”

There is a silence. A long and painful silence as Jon stares at the picture in his hand without really seeing it, feeling nothing but Martin’s eyes on him.

“Jon,” Martin says after what must have been forever. His voice is calm and slow, but betraying a faint tremble. “Why do you have that?”

“I, ah—” Jon begins, then has to swallow around the lump in his throat before he can try again. “It fell out of your book. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to— I didn’t think—”

“No, you didn’t,” Martin snaps, closer than Jon would have expected. He snatches the picture out of Jon’s hand, puts it back in the book, then takes the book too. Jon can hear him putting it away, but he doesn’t dare to follow Martin with his gaze.

“I’m sorry,” Jon says again, wrapping his arms around himself and sounding as pathetic as he feels.

“That stuff is private, Jon.” Martin sounds less angry now, but more...scared.

Jon finally brings himself to look up. Martin is standing too far away from him, shoulders hunched and hands tucked away in the pockets of his cardigan. His face is red, but not in a good way, and his eyes are shiny. It’s because of Jon, and Jon is pretty sure that qualifies him as the worst person in history, spooky avatars included.

“I know,” Jon says weakly. “I have no excuse. I didn’t know what the book was and I got curious. I should have asked first.”

“Yeah,” Martin agrees, voice still trembling. He sounds so defeated that it makes Jon want to punch himself. “Yeah, you should’ve.”

Jon takes a deep breath, just as shaky. “Do you want me to leave?”

Martin scoffs, shaking his head. “I don’t know? Kind of?”

Blinking back the burning behind his eyes, Jon nods. “Okay.” His steps feel slow and heavy as he walks towards the door, and the flat is small enough that he has to pass Martin closely on his way there. He itches to reach out, to make things right. But he knows he messed up. “I’m so sorry, Martin,” is all he can offer.

The words have Martin turning towards him, eyes cautious. “You’ll still call me that?” he asks.

“What?” Jon wonders, caught off guard and confused.

“You’re not gonna, I don’t know, insist on calling me— Calling me my _old_ name, now that you know what it is?” Martin’s eyes flicker back and forth, as he seems to prepare himself for something.

Jon frowns, shaking his head. “What, no, I don’t even—” Oh. The names on the back of the photograph. Jon doesn’t even know which one of them used to belong to Martin, but it’s not like that matters. “I would _never_ ,” he assures, trying and failing to catch Martin’s eyes, so he tries to reach out and put a hand on his arm instead. He fails at that too. “Martin, I— You’ve _always_ been Martin to me. And you always will be. Unless, I mean, unless you’d choose something new, but point is, an old photograph can’t change that.”

Martin doesn’t say anything, but the redness in his face seems to fade a little. Jon tries to reach for him again, and this time he manages to catch one of Martin’s hands in both his own. He holds it gently, like the precious thing it is.

“I messed up by looking in that book, I know, and you have every right to be upset. You probably should be. But you don’t need to worry that I’ll think of you differently just because I know something new about your past.” He strokes his thumb over the back of Martin’s hand, brushing over the soft ginger hairs there. “Nothing changed when I learned you were trans and nothing is going to change because of this. You’re _Martin_. That’s all that matters.”

Martin scoffs again, but he doesn’t pull away. “Then you’d be the first to think that,” he mutters, eyes still wet.

Jon frowns. “Wha—?” The words from the page come to the front of his mind, unbidden: _I ask you to call me Martin._ Jon doesn’t need to have read the rest to fill in the blanks.

Physical affection doesn’t tend to come easily for Jon. Mostly because he rarely trusts people to get them past that first barrier of touch. But he knows it’s natural for Martin, and he trusts him more than anyone. So he steps in closer, bringing his arms around Martin’s body and holding him as close as he dares to. “They don’t deserve you,” he decides, his cheek against Martin’s chest. “Whoever can’t bring themselves to call you your real name, they don’t deserve you.”

For a moment, nothing happens. Then Martin sags against him, arms wrapping around him and chin settling atop his head. Martin tries to calm his breathing, and Jon helps him best he can, rubbing circles against his back. Finally, there’s a faint whisper: “But she’s my mum. She’s my mum and I just— I just want her to—” His voice breaks off into another shaking half-breath, half-sob.

“It’s okay to want,” Jon murmurs. “She...she shouldn’t make you want, but of course it’s okay that you do. Either way you’re a better son than she deserves.”

“That’s the problem though, isn’t it?” Martin says, sniffling just a bit. “She doesn’t want a son.”

“Tough,” Jon says. “She has one. And he’s a better man than most.”

It’s silent for a while as Martin’s breathing becomes more regular, though this time it’s comfortable. He moves one hand from Jon’s back, to his hair, and sighs before finally speaking again. His voice is soft, with a hint of...wonder, almost. “Why are you doing this?”

“Doing what?” Jon asks. He rather likes how he fits against Martin, wonders why he hasn’t tried this before.

“I don’t know. Being nice?”

Jon’s arms tighten around Martin, a cool and slow fury flowing through him, directed at anyone who has ever made Martin feel like he doesn’t deserve nice things, like he doesn’t deserve some basic human decency. Jon knows that includes him too.

“Because I want to,” he finally says. “Because I like you and want to see you happy. Is that not enough?”

Martin exhales, his breath tickling Jon’s hair as he burrows his face closer. Jon can’t tell if Martin is just pressing his nose into his hair, or if he’s kissing him, but it doesn’t matter. Though he’d quite like for it to be a kiss.

“Besides,” Jon adds with a sigh, “I used to be quite the prick and I’d like to make up for that as much as I can.”

Martin chuckles, the vibrations of it warm and comforting against Jon’s cheek. “Oh, you weren’t so bad.”

Jon pulls back just enough to give Martin a very unimpressed look. “I was pretty bad.”

He still has his hands splayed across Martin’s back, and Martin’s fingers are still tangled in his hair. They’re close enough that Jon could count every single freckle on Martin’s face, if he only had the time. Perhaps later.

Whatever retort Martin had prepared dies as his eyes go almost comically wide and his face again turns that pleasant shade of pink. “I— I’m—” He clears his throat and pulls back, leaving Jon cold where they’re no longer pressed together. “I’m gonna get started on the tea.”

Jon lets him go, the memory of him warm enough for now.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading, I hope you liked it!  
> I might have an idea for a third and final fic in this series, and comments do encourage me to keep writing, just saying!


End file.
